She goes out, she goes in, she comes to him her mouth promising the lady in white, the lady in the white, the lady in the white skeleton

He awoke one day and in his sleepy haze he sees her standing before his bed, swaying there waiting for him to ask her, just what did her visit entail?
she goes out, she goes in, moving in closer by the moment and what is she here to tell him? He wanted her gone, bony bony apparition

And she is robust somehow as she stands there before him, she is plain, she is holey, empty skeleton for his own digestion, what is she, an illumination, a portent, maligned omen

She goes out, she goes in, and when she comes to him grinnish he had the sense, the sense his days were numbered, and she was no lady, no she was no friend

Then she places a book on his night stand with words written in red ink, written in elegant hand

In it is his name written on the top line, below that his birthday, below that the days, and she says: that is Mr. Jones March 22 that 's today as you know, and in a very few moments, your death will approach

You have not honored life or death, Mr. Jones, that's why I'm here, you have only yourself to thank, and that's clear
you have had one cup of black coffee every day of your life
no cream, no sugar, no love and no sacrifice

For too many years you've taken up space here, and dingied these walls and these chandeliers, and I'll insist Mr. Jones as you fear, give up the ghost won't you?

She goes out, she goes in, and in her skeletal seniority she places a brittle bone on him, and he turned to dust, his gown remained lying on the spotlessly clean marble floor,
no legacy to speak of, for Mr. Jones, no nothing more